


AU Madness - Thorinduil & Friends

by pherede



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Buddy Cop AU, Choose Which One Gets A Full-Length Fic, Coffeeshop AU, Everything Is AUs, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Star Trek AU, Werewolves and Vampires AU, road trip au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:13:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherede/pseuds/pherede
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After taking prompts for everyone's favorite AUs on my tumblr, I'm writing a snippet of fic for each AU prompt, from space pirates to Dark Peter Pan. Once they're all finished, I'll take votes-- on tumblr and here-- and the favorite/s will get full-length fic treatment!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All Things Go - Road Trip AU

"He’s an asshole, for one thing," says Thorin, thumbing water out of his ear. "A humorless, boring asshole. I don’t even know how you got to be friends with him."

Bilbo pushes his plate back and crosses his arms. In the cheerful quiet of the dining room, the sound of the coffeepot gurgling makes Thorin’s ears itch. If Bilbo weren’t literally the only friend left offering free use of his shower…

"We were in Birdwatching together at school," says Bilbo, affronted and trying not to show it. "Last summer, just before graduation."

"I didn’t graduate," says Thorin, wringing his hair out over the kitchen trash can, because Bilbo scolded if he dripped in the kitchen sink. "Remember? My mom died, I moved into my car, I failed out of school? Oh, and that  _asshole_  wouldn’t let me crib off his notes?”

"He was at a ceremony," huffs Bilbo. "Not many of his people still practice their traditions. It wasn’t personal, he just wasn’t on campus."

Thorin rolls his eyes. He can tell that he’s about to burn this bridge too, because he never can keep his mouth shut and Bilbo is very protective of his friends. Case in point: Thorin, leaving damp footprints in Bilbo’s kitchen (which Bilbo hates), with a belly full of Bilbo’s cooking, because he is Bilbo’s friend.

He sighs. Be an adult, he tells himself. Just fucking put the anger away, for once. Bilbo hasn’t done anything to you.

"Anyway," proceeds Bilbo, "don’t you have an aunt in Chicago? I mean it’s nothing guaranteed, but she might be willing to let you crash on her couch for a bit, maybe set you up with a job. You honestly can’t do worse than you’re doing right now."

"I’m not fucking freeloading on Aunt Dale," says Thorin.

"I didn’t say freeload," counters Bilbo. "Fix her roof or something. Make yourself useful. You can’t keep living like this."

He’s right. Thorin knows he’s right. “Goddammit,” he says. “I don’t want to sightsee or anything. I just want to get there.”

"I doubt there’ll be much sightseeing," says Bilbo, pulling his plate back across the table and serving himself another helping of pasta salad. "I’m not much for adventures, myself, and Thranduil is… well…"

"Full of silent tragedy and shit," says Thorin. "The oppression of his tribe or whatever. Doesn’t talk a lot. Why the fuck’s he going to Chicago anyway?"

Bilbo pointedly does not make eye contact. “Personal reasons,” he mutters around a mouthful of pasta.

"Fine," says Thorin, digging through his ratty backpack for a shirt. "As long as you’re going too."

________________

"What the  _fuck_ ,” says Thorin into the phone.

Bilbo is almost painfully apologetic. “It’s really important,” he says. “I swear, it’ll only be a few days. I’ll fly out to St. Louis and you can pick me up.”

"It better be fucking important," says Thorin, "because I’m not getting in the car with that dick unless you’re present."

Bilbo is very quiet. Thorin can practically hear the guilt seeping out of him, and instantly feels like a piece of shit, because Bilbo’s put so much work into rescuing him.

"Okay," Thorin says after a few painful seconds. "Fuck.  _Fuck_. I’ll do it. I swear to fucking god if he stops for so much as a Starbucks I will choke him with his pretty long hair.”

"Thank you," says Bilbo, and the worst part is he  _means_  it, he is thanking Thorin for letting Bilbo help him, like the worst possible thing Thorin could do to him would be staying here in Los Angeles and throwing his life away. “He’ll pick you up at four-thirty tomorrow morning.”

"Four—" Thorin exclaims, but Bilbo has already hung up, and Thorin curses and kicks the inner panel of his car’s back door.

Bilbo’s right. Bilbo’s always fucking right. The car won’t even start most mornings and Thorin’s surprised he hasn’t been robbed while he sleeps, sprawled out in the back seat with his mom’s bathrobe for a blanket.

He can put up with Thranduil for fifteen days if it gets him out of this. 


	2. Point Guy - Buddy Cop AU

Thorin knows they want him to say something. They want blood, of course, preferably the Dragon’s, but since Thorin has pretty much fucked that one up it looks like his blood will have to do.

So he’s not talking. The division chief has bitched him out so hard that the guy is actually taking a break to drink water, which is something Thorin has never seen him do, if his suspicions about that water bottle he keeps in his office are true. Three other guys on the squad are looking at their shoes, because they all know it could have been them— who doesn’t fuck up a case once in a while? 

They’re just lucky they didn’t let a major informant turn into a major liability, and get an entire station firebombed by the fucking Dragon himself. They know how lucky they are, so they’re watching the ground like it’s wearing a black hoodie.

Thranduil, on the other hand, is gloating. Like he always does, the smug fuck, head tilted just a little, watching Thorin get reamed in front of everybody. Thranduil has goodwill to spare, after last month’s ridiculously lucrative crack raid, and if he wasn’t such a  _smug fuck_  he would be stepping in to remind everyone that Thorin poured his blood and sweat into that project for months, and that shit like this can go south at a moment’s notice.

Thranduil is doing none of this shit, and Thorin hates him so much he could bite that fucker’s face off and wear it inside-out like a fucking ghoul mask. Or right-side out, to be honest— Thorin’s not usually the guy to make cracks about a cop’s looks, but right now he wants to  _piss_  on Thranduil’s burn scars, not least because Thranduil always acts like they’re some fucking Two-Face shit that scares the ladies instead of the well-healed examples of modern skin grafts they really are.

He’s so busy ruminating on how pathetically Thranduil would cry if Thorin made fun of his cheek that he almost misses the division chief’s return to the table.

"Sorry," he says, because he was clearly not paying attention, "I thought you said  _reassigned to West End patrol_?”

"Take the dicks out of your ears when I’m talking to you, Sergeant," bellows the division chief. "You want to fuck around, that’s great. You can do it somewhere one of my  _worthwhile_  boys might get himself killed, because to be honest at this point if you take a bullet and end up a paragraph in the Tribune you will  _improve_  the PR of this district, you hear me?”

Back on patrol. After three years of undercover work, doing some of the toughest shit in the city. Thorin wants to kill himself, preferably in a way that simultaneously kills the division chief  _and_ leaves said chief looking like the killer.

"Sir," he responds dully. "You realize if I patrol the West End alone, with my work history, you’re assigning me to a suicide mission."

The district chief laughs at him, with a great deal more spit than Thorin thinks strictly necessary. “Don’t tempt me,” he says. “Nah, kid, you’ll have a friend out there. Volunteer, actually, by specific request. Turns out  _some_  people around here want to keep their careers moving, even if it means making a sacrifice once in a while.”

"Who," says Thorin, " _requests_  the West End patrol?”

Everyone at the table looks the same direction— to long blond hair, calculating eyes, sneering lips. “Who just busted a drug ring on Magnolia Street,” says the division chief, with no little glee. “Who’s been digging around that area for a year and a half? Who said he’d give you a chance even though you are fucking _career poison_  right now? You poor sad bastard, Sergeant Thorin, you better start buying Thranduil’s coffee.”


	3. With Cream - Coffeeshop AU

Thorin long ago got over the excitement of the latte machine with its unpredictable (he suspects slightly broken) gouts of steam and clanking noises. He’d thought, starting out, that it wasn’t too bad a job for an ex-college student without any hope for a degree (thanks a lot, Prof. Smaug, that thesis had been his heart and soul).

It’s just that, for all his mechanical genius (really, who else could have kept the latte machine trucking), Thorin really hates people. Really. Especially hipsters. Even cute little grannies out on bike rides with cockatiels tucked inside their rain jackets are bad enough (okay, kind of cute, but pet people are weird); even bland-faced soccer moms who ask him, an indie-shop barista, for a Frap… well, he knows the meaning of hate.

It’s just that hipsters are the worst. They linger, like a bad smell; they wear revolting trends that crop up like the first sneeze of pollen season, only to proliferate until you’d rather gouge your eyes out than see them again; they— like this one, this blonde guy, Thorin’s never seen him before but his bike is presumptuous as fuck (are those antler-styled handlebars) and his hair looks… his hair looks stupid… okay his face is…

Thorin doesn’t realize he’s staring with his mouth open until the latte machine goes off like a locomotive right in his face. “Ow, fuck,” he spits, then realizes the hipster is standing right across the counter, face tilted inquisitively, and tries really hard to regain his composure: “Er, that is, Thorin Oakenshield at your service, what can I get you?”

* * *

The guy comes in, like, every day. He never came in before. Thorin would have remembered that face. Is he new in town? Is he fucking  _lost_?

He comes in even on days off, and Thorin knows this because Bofur makes a comment that would have been catty coming from anyone else. Okay, Thorin hasn't been exactly the picture of dignity. It's just hard to talk when your mouth suddenly goes dry and you have the insane urge to lean across the countertop and grab a customer by his hideous Helvetica graphic tee and kiss him until you both die of steam burns. 

Thorin reassures himself by remembering, over and over, that Bofur is weirdly empathic and what he recognizes as hopeless infatuation on Thorin's face probably looks to everyone else like just another indiscriminate shade of rage.

This does not help at all when Thranduil-- his name is Thranduil, what a twit-- comes in on a ridiculously soggy Thursday, buys a drink  _for here_ , and instead of leaving right away sits down with a journal-- moleskine, of course-- and starts writing. For hours. The shadows of rain on the window turn his hair into a monochrome light show. Thorin is absolutely sick with longing.

If this is the start of a new  _thing_ , Thorin swears, he's going to quit his job and take up warehouse stocking. It's bad enough that this guy leaves him cottonmouthed and feeling like a car wreck every morning at eleven. He absolutely cannot handle this shit for  _hours at a time_.

He can't do it. The latte machine can hang. Thorin isn't the kind of guy who powers through things, not any more, and as Thranduil gets up to leave (skinny jeans riding low as he slings a messenger bag over his shoulders, a few fingerwidths of skin appearing just long enough to make Thorin's own jeans painfully tight), Thorin throws down his counter-wiping cloth like a mail gauntlet and stomps away, leaving Bofur to tend the clientele while Thorin makes his way, blindly, to the alley out back.


	4. Hex Or Hinder - Harry Potter AU (1930s)

That year so many students complain of mis-Sorting that there is an official review, and a full fifth of the Ministry panel actually vote  _to re-Sort students_  from their chosen Houses. Of course, the Hat reigns supreme as ever, and the most progressive voice to be heard is that of Agnetha Winterwort, who writes mad editorials about the inevitable rise of a new Dark Lord and the importance of dissolving House prejudice and who is, largely, ignored with polite embarrassment before mysteriously retiring from the Daily Prophet.

What this means to Thorin Oakenshield is that his very old and very proud family is mortified beyond reason, at least the members of it that can be found (his father is still wandering somewhere in the Carpathians, looking for that rubbish map). Also that he will not inherit the traditional private spaces of the line of Erebor, his great-grandmother’s family; instead of creeping about Gryffindor Tower at night on mad adventures, it looks like Thorin will be hastily shuffled into a perfectly nice and serviceable two-bed chamber in Hufflepuff.

His roommate is a prig. Tall, thin, and incredibly arrogant, Thranduil has apparently spent the last year in a ridiculously exclusive school on the Continent, learning how to invest and maintain his departed father’s capital, and also learning how to turn his nose up at everything from Thorin’s clothing to his accent. Thorin gathers that Thranduil expected to be in Slytherin, making connections and twisting his lip at the lesser-bred.

At least there’s one good thing about all this. Instead of lording it over the school with his agemates in Slytherin, Thranduil is stuck here in Hufflepuff with thunderous bores like Giffard Abbot, sleeping in a first-year’s room because he wasn’t expected to be here.

The first day of classes is awful. Double Care of Magical Creatures with Gryffindor— like a slap in the face, a reminder of his lost dreams. All that keeps Thorin sane is the increasing disgust on Thranduil’s face whenever any of the Hufflepuff brood speaks up.

After a full day and a lovely dinner, however, it starts to get old. Someone breaks out a stolen bottle of something wretched and throat-searing, and while Hufflepuffs are far too responsible to allow him more than a taste (eleven-year-olds are, after all, children to be protected, even glowering eleven-year-olds with uncut hair in braid-locks and dark shadows already showing where the beard will grow in at fifteen)…

…Thorin doesn’t hate them that much. They’re nice enough, a little prosaic, making plans and assigning roles and building their little corner of Hogwarts into a community as if they were programmed from birth. Nothing like the grand glory of Gryffindor,  _obviously_ , but not a single one of them seems two-faced or snobby or spiteful.

Except for Thranduil, of course, sitting in their room with the lights out when Thorin finally stumbles off to bed.

"If you hate it so much," offers Thorin, "maybe you ought to go back to France, or wherever."

"The  _Balkans_ ,” hisses Thranduil, turning up his nose, and Thorin thinks he’s going to get the silent treatment; but then Thranduil continues: “I would love to go back, but Mr. Proctor thinks there’s going to be upheaval, so it’s off to provincial Hogwarts for me.”

"Upheaval," echoes Thorin, who has not heard the slightest hint of this, Agnetha Winterwort not having yet laid pen to paper on the topic.

"Wonderful things are happening in Europe," says Thranduil, his eyes lighting up. "Political things. Very bright thinkers, nothing like you’ll see on this side of he Channel, all science and heredity and charisma." He looks old for twelve, despite having a face smooth as a lady’s blouse and hair that falls to a razor-blunt line at the level of his chin— terribly fashionable, probably. 

"We’ve got plenty of brilliant blokes here," says Thorin, affronted enough to pause in the process of shucking his robes. "My granddad’s practically a genius."

Thranduil waves his objection aside. “Certainly, if you’re thinking of agriculture, but I mean… Well. You wouldn’t understand. Just know that in the Balkans, my tutors were fellows who aren’t even allowed to study their fields in England. It’s a backward place, England, really decades behind the times.”

"Who were your tutors," asks Thorin, tucking his shoes beneath his bed as he has always been taught to do, lest someone trip on them, even if the bed is not where you wish it were and your roommate is probably a lunatic and certainly a git and absolutely deserves to trip on shoes, or worse.

"Mr. Gellert is one of them," replies Thranduil, going a bit dreamy-eyed. "He tutored me in symbology and lineages. Mr. Gellert Grindlewald, you might have heard his name. And his bosom companion taught Charms— Mr. Albus."

"Bosom companion," repeats Thorin, neither having heard these names nor particularly caring about them. "What’s that supposed to be, then?"

Thranduil sighs and climbs into his bed, flicking his wand to extinguish the light. “Another thing England doesn’t understand,” he says, and disappears under the blankets.


	5. Second Contact - Star Trek AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been REVISED and roughly doubled in length and now actually gets to the good bits before cutting off. ENJOY

"Some of these bioreactors have been running continuously for one hundred eighty-seven years," says Thranduil, his eyes more tired than usual. "This is my life's work, Admiral."

"It's hard to maintain a staff of fourteen and a bank of chemostats without funding," smiles the Admiral, shrugging as if she's merely observing one of the ungovernable foibles of the universe rather than threatening one of Starfleet's most lauded biochemists. 

His hand tightens on the edge of his desk. The quiet, familiar hum of the bioreactor chamber now fills him with growing dread, thinking of how easily it will be disrupted, wondering if he can make it six light-years out of the Eryn system and back before the delicate balance of nutrients and waste becomes critical, wondering where on earth thirteen visitors can fit until Starfleet sends out a rescue. Wondering if this will be the incident that brings the Naecromanth down on his head, or if it's too late even now, with a ship full of Khazad survivors no doubt blasting distress signals in every direction. "Surely they can maintain life support for two weeks," he says.

"It's not a question of life support," says the Admiral. "The Eryn system is home to some... unusual dangers, and I would hate to see our few survivors run afoul of something they can't handle."

Cold understanding seizes him. The Khazad are spies, sent to dig information from the Naecromanth collective. Of course Starfleet didn't warn him; Eryn Lasgalen is a lovely green planet inhabited only by Thranduil and his fellow researchers, no planetary defenses to speak of, so why bother preparing them for an evacuation in case of espionage gone wrong? As if Thranduil hasn't been doing his part to keep an eye on the ringship at the edge of his system.

"I see," he spits, not bothering to disguise his loathing.

"Then you'll offer your hospitality," says the Admiral, pleased, and Thranduil nods with such tight rage that it feels like his jaw will snap.

The short-sightedness of humans and their quick-living ilk will never cease to astound him. Even with the latest medical advances, none of them will live longer than ELK-S733D has been running; and now, after literal centuries of ignoring his warnings about the Naecromanth ringship, they'll destroy his research to rescue their ham-fisted attempts at espionage-- too little, too late, and entirely the wrong way.

The blue flicker of the datacomm screen is jarring under the soft gold mercury-vapor lamps of the bioreactor chamber, even after the Admiral's uncaring face blinks away.

* * *

 

He's loaded ELK and its siblings with enough nutrients to last for four days, and stressed the tank's settings to their maximum. If he's lucky, and if the chemostat can withstand the first twelve hours of imbalance, he might come back to find it functional. Chances aren't good-- summer on Eryn Lasgalen is humid and fecund, and if the emergency pressure valves vent, the whole system will be full of algae in a matter of hours.

Thranduil doesn't rush through the pre-flight checks, even though the clock is already ticking. His reason for caution even in his desperation is crossing the tarmac right now, an expression of determined focus on his face, still in research garb even though the pale gold sunlight is cold with tree-shadows in the haze of morning damp.

Legolas doesn't give Thranduil a chance to explain, which Thranduil fully expected, which is why he sent word through Dr. Tauriel even though he doesn't like to encourage them talking to each other. "You must be joking," he says, gloved fists clenched against his pale-green lab smock. "Khazad may be short, but they're a bulky species, and they don't take kindly to tight spaces, even if they  _didn't_ have an ancestral grudge against us. Thirteen of them? You'll be killed at the helm."

Thranduil sighs, leaning his forehead against the panel, which is dripping with condensation. "It's this or the funding," he says, trying to keep his voice from sounding short.

"You can't," pleads Legolas.

Pulling himself upright, Thranduil sheds the role of longsuffering father and assumes the carriage of the head researcher. "If we leave them on the outskirts of the system," he says, "they'll pull every Naecromanth shuttle for thirty parsecs with their distress signals, and we'll lose the bioreactors to missiles instead of algae. At least I can salvage something when I get back."

Legolas tightens his mouth, and his spine straightens. "Then I'll run the ELK bank while you're gone," he announces.

"Absolutely not," insists Thranduil. "You have your own research-- this is a critical specimen-gathering window, isn't it? You're due to round on the sampler drones this week."

Legolas shrugs, his eyes helpless but his lips still thin and tight. "It wasn't progressing," he says, and Thranduil meets his gaze and is pierced with a faint realization, a hint that perhaps Legolas will not be a fellow researcher on Eryn Lasgalen forever.

His throat thickens and his tongue feels paralyzed. "Thank you," he manages, and embraces his son, pressing his cheek to Legolas's hair and giving him a rough kiss on the temple. "Thank you, son."

"Be safe," says Legolas, and watches from the tarmac as Thranduil climbs into the shuttle, preparing to save thirteen Starfleet spies from their own stupidity, and to pay for their rescue an unexpected cost.

* * *

 

Finding the ship is simple. They are, as Thranduil expected, blasting distress signals in what they no doubt think are secure channels, because despite the patterns and suspicions Thranduil has been reporting to Starfleet for years, they still don't understand about the Naecromanth's Eye and how easily their encryptions have been broken.

The ship is a wreck, having suffered a critical power failure on collision with a pack of spider-drones. Their transporter is disastrously befuddled, so Thranduil is forced to actually  _dock_ with their craft, and meet them all in turn. A grouchy, sullen, hungry lot they are; some, like the hulking Dwalin and thick-armed Dori, look like professional murderers to Thranduil's biased eye, while even the good-natured Bofur and quick-witted Nori can scarcely manage more than a smile and a salute. 

Their captain is another thing entirely. Dark-eyed, thick-chested, with a flowing mane of rich black hair and a proud nose above tight regretful lips, Captain Thorin Oakenshield is the rudest sentient being Thranduil has ever met.

Thirteen Khazad enter Thranduil's ship, milling and poking into things and inspecting hardware, and the whole time Thranduil is so distracted by Oakenshield's demands and disrespect-- he wants food (their replicators were damaged), he wants private space of his own, he wants this and that and how dare Thranduil have rescued him in such a shabby little ship and how  _dare_ Thranduil insist that they keep themselves out of the engine room and the bridge and how  _dare..._ Relentless, really.

He almost doesn't notice the ping on the computer's alarm system, or even the series of shudders that warn him of the Naecromanth's missile-spewing return.

Shields pop up automatically, and just in time-- the whole ship shakes until everyone is thrown sideways, and through the sparkling field of the airlock, Thranduil sees most of the Khazad ship simply rip away, leaving half a deck still docked to Thranduil's own vessel. The impact tilts the deck so violently that Thranduil is thrown from one wall to the other, and Oakenshield (who was only a moment ago chewing him out) is crushed on top of him, absolutely enormous with armor and his own muscle.

"Computer, undock and prepare for warp," orders Thranduil, when he can breathe again. Oakenshield curses, and his knee digs into Thranduil's thigh as he struggles to right himself.

"Unable to comply with request," replies the computer in its serene tones. "Life support capacity exceeded. Fifteen passengers detected."

Thirteen Khazad and one scientist. Thranduil's brow knits. Oakenshield, having staggered upright, pointedly does not make eye contact. "Confirm passenger status," says Thranduil, and nearly misses the response in the next barrage of drone artillery.

"Passenger count fifteen," intones the computer. "One elf, thirteen dwarves, and one holbytla."

"What the  _hell_ is a holbytla," snaps Thranduil.

"Shields at fourteen percent," responds the computer, placid as ever. "Predict hull breach in forty-five seconds. Please remove at least one passenger."

Oakenshield shouts for Dwalin. Thranduil panics a bit. "Computer," he begins, "is cryo-stasis--"

Impact. The deck tilts madly, and Oakenshield's falling weight strikes Thranduil square in the solar plexus, sending them both into a tumbling slide-- there is a shimmer, a wretchedly uncomfortable sensation, a moment of piercing cold, and as Thranduil and his rescue-victim fall and slip from his lovely warm ship into the thin air and mind-numbing cold of the ruined Khazad loading bay, he hears the computer chime: "Passenger ratio resolved. Warp four in three--"

Spots swim in front of his eyes. He has just enough time to understand that he will die here, against the bulkhead of a piece of space scrap, roasted alive in warp-wash if he manages to maintain consciousness on so little oxygen, before Oakenshield grabs him in a full-body embrace and rolls them both across what once was wall until they fall against a door.

No telling what's on the other side of the door, but over Oakenshield's shaggy armored shoulder Thranduil can see the warp engines pulsing to life, the fairytale Cherenkov blue against the endless black of his impending fate, and he wants nothing more than to be away from it. "Go," he shouts, hammering at Oakenshield's back in futile terror, and Oakenshield barks something in his bestial tongue and the door parts (no sound; the air is almost gone) and they fall (a veering roll, there is artificial gravity) and the door claps shut again just as the blue becomes searing and there is a sound that propagates through plexisteel and dissipating atmosphere and fucking _free protons_ , absolutely crushing, the sound of Thranduil's ship ceasing to exist in this dimension and hurtling through nothing at all to be somewhere else.

The fact that Thranduil manages to scream and keep screaming as the vibration punishes his bones, and the fact that Oakenshield is still crushing him into the floor, is what tells him he's still alive. He doesn't think to question it for a long minute of racing breath and agonized groans, and by then the dim lights have come up and Oakenshield is hauling himself upright with shaking arms and they are, somehow, both still alive and in one piece and breathing.

They are on a very small, very plain shuttle. Exposed wires dangle from the ceiling above the single cockpit-seat. Beside Oakenshield's heaving cursing hulk there is a rudimentary interface for a propulsion system, maybe thirty years out of date.

"You had an escape shuttle," he says, choking on his own dry tongue. 

Oakenshield won't look at him. "It's a piece of shit," he says. "Warp one point five. Only supports two, minimal shielding."

"One point  _five_ ," echoes Thranduil in cold dread. "That's practically sublight. Speeds like that, it's almost two  _months_ from here to Eryn Lasgalen."

This seems to cheer his companion immensely. "Ah, so you have a place nearby, excellent," he says, and scrubs his face with his hand before staggering to the pilot's seat to collapse.

"Nearby? Did you hear me? Two months! Through some of the deadliest space in this quadrant, packed with drones and enemies and-- let me remind you-- things that can disable an entire ship!"

Oakenshield practically snarls at him. "If you've got a better idea," he says, "spit it out; otherwise, give me your coordinates so I can get this heap of space junk moving before the drones realize they left survivors."

Thranduil rattles off the numbers by rote as he forces himself to stand, willing his shaking legs to bear his weight. "Two months," he groans. "Damn you, Oakenshield."

"If we're going to be stuck in this tiny fucking barrel for two months," his companion retorts, "you'd better start calling me Captain," and the engines groan as the shuttle prepares for what Thranduil supposes is technically warp.


	6. Dayblind - Shapeshifting Secret Societies A/B/O AU

She emerges from the shop, plastic bag twisted around what smells like lemongrass pork, red hair smooth against her green tweed coat. Her face is severe, Thorin thinks, but a wry smile plays about her mouth. Flirting with the staff, no doubt; Thorin caught a glimpse of that thin-lipped bleach-blond fellow behind the counter an hour earlier, when she went in.

It's cold behind the dumpster, especially bareskin like this, but Thorin doesn't shift. The years have taught him that humans are hardly the weak, stupid, dull-eyed prey that his country-bound kin seemed to think. It's just that, in the old green hills south of Snoqualmie, humans are scarce compared to deer and elk, and nobody hunted them except for fun.

Some fun.

Here in the city, prey animals seem limited to pigeons, since raccoons and rabbits are quick and wary even for their kind. Yesterday Thorin caught himself eyeing a stray dog that looked well-fed and healthy enough, sort of. The disgust and self-loathing still haven't worn off; the old taboo against dogflesh runs very deep.

Well. It's not like he has any reason to be especially nice to humans, does he? And their steaming sopping flesh tears as nicely as any elk's, even if they're a bit insubstantial-- better than this shitty diet of sick feral cats, which has left Thorin so weak and feverish he can't bring on a shift.

The girl finishes unlocking her bike and pedals away, and Thorin sets off in a loping run, following her scent. She won't be going far; nobody in this neighborhood does, not like the miles and miles Thorin is accustomed to running. Easy jog on the slick asphalt, steady climb through the foggy night, and he hears her pull to a stop only four blocks up the hill. 

She's humming to herself. She smells like herself, no mingling of scents from long cohabitation, one more reason (doesn't smoke, vegetarian) that Thorin has chosen her. Nobody will miss her. Maybe the blond kid from the restaurant, if she's a regular, but Thorin's lip twists at the thought and his nails dig into the bark of the hedge where he's lurking.

It's so fucking easy for them. They don't understand anything, fucking humans, male and female and whatever's between and outside all kissing and rutting and marrying and not giving a shit. Flirting with shop-boys, if they want to. Everyone's a beta, and half of them can breed.

She knocks at the door, which is the first deviation from his plan, because he'd expected to follow her into the house. Instead, he watches as she passes off the plastic bag, exchanges money-- is she a delivery person? Shit. 

There's a construction lot a little ways down, on Republican. He'll knock her off her bike there, drag her over the fence-- he's still strong enough for that-- and he'll eat, because otherwise he's going to die.

Thorin lopes behind her, fudging it a little. No human can run like he can run, but he hopes his footsteps will sound like a late-night runner and she won't turn around, even if he's gaining far too fast. Nobody really  _expects_  to be knocked down at night and eaten.

By the time she turns to look, he's close enough to launch himself through the air, arms out in a parody of an embrace, killing teeth exposed. She only gets her arm up halfway before he hits. The impact is tremendous, more than he expected-- she has one foot on the pavement, she braced herself instead of defending herself-- he goes for the throat, for the hot vein, and her fist takes him in the ear like a semi truck. 

His grasping hands, curled like claws, rip her jacket as he kicks his feet on the slick black road, trying to keep his balance. Her back arches and her knee comes out of nowhere, not in the groin to stagger him but in the sternum to fucking  _disable_ him. If he weren't what he is, he would be on the pavement by now, but he coughs out the pain and grabs her bicep, twists her dangerous forearm out of the way, lunges-- she kicks the bike at him, tangling his feet, and they both go over-- his teeth are at her throat even with the bike seat gouging into his gut and the pedal gashing his shin. Searing pain spikes through his head, stopping him just short of skin, as she grips his ear and twists with her off hand, outright ripping the lobe in a slow stretching tear from his jaw.

He yelps, trying to twist to accommodate, and she gets her arm free and brings her elbow up like a bludgeon and cracks his cheekbone before splitting open his brow as well. His vision is obliterated with his own blood. The bike is like a bed of nails as her knee drives it into his weight, and the two of them are skidding down the steep wet street. She doesn't even flinch as the gravel digs into her back.

Thorin comes to a stop a few feet downhill from where he meant to make his tackle, breathing hard, dripping blood and feeling all the tissue in his face and sinuses start to swell. His teeth are still exposed, but frozen in the yellow streetlight, lips curled back in horror instead of anticipation.

Her ear is pointed. The blood under her skin beats with absurd speed, a flicker of a pulse too rapid even for a woman who's just beaten the shit out of her attacker. 

"Fuck," she says, disgusted. "It's a wolf."

"Oh shit," says Thorin, trying to scramble away from her, and realizing in the process that his left foot isn't working well. "Shit, I am so sorry, I didn't know--"

She makes a spiteful sound and shoves the dented frame of her bike across the street with one too-strong arm. "The fuck are you doing in Seattle," she says, like a cop about to arrest the same guy the third time. 

"I seriously didn't know," Thorin says, though he already knows it's too late, he's violated treaties older than fucking New Hampshire. "You weren't wearing any tells!"

"Why the fuck would I wear tells in Seattle," she snaps, pulling herself upright; she's not undamaged, there's road rash all over her arm and he can see the spurt of blood from her capillaries in the grim gold light, perfect proof that she's as far from human as he is. Her blood spurts like a hose and doesn't clot fast enough.

She'll have to feed tonight, he congratulates himself. But, kind of, so does he, and at this point he doesn't think he can catch anything that isn't sick to the point of death. Even if she and her kind let him live.

"I'll leave," he offers, trying to stand up. "I don't know how things work out here. My, uh, my clan was rural."

"Was," repeats the woman, tilting her head, as Thorin makes it halfway upright and something grinds in his foot and, humiliatingly, he throws up. Shit. He's really badly off.

"Exterminated," he chokes once he's done vomiting, and she snorts with exasperation. "We fucked up."

She sighs, picks up her bike. "Apparently not an isolated incident," she says. "Get your shit together, you can make it two more blocks."

Yeah, he's not that stupid. "No way in hell. You fuckers want to finish me, you got to let me run. It's in the law."

"Don't be a fuckwit. You can't run like that. Anyway, you're a pisscock in a fight, you can't have been eating well, so you can either starve here or drag your ass down to my boss's office and throw yourself on his mercy."

"I'll starve here."

"No you fucking won't or I'll beat you the rest of the way to death. Get up, short stuff." She sighs again when she realizes he really can't stand up, and hands him the bike to lean against, confident that he won't run. They could be a pair of friends like this, descending the hill slowly, walking the bike between them, except that they're both dripping blood and Thorin has to stop twice more to throw up nothing but bile.

"What's your name," he says, as she guides him into the alley behind the restaurant.

She doesn't answer right away, and he can practically smell the fury of internal debate rising off her. "Tauriel," she says at last.

He repeats her name; his mouth is dry. "Yeah," she says, not bothering to ask his in return, opening the green-painted metal door down into the basement from the alley. "And my boss is Thranduil, bloodlord of this whole area, so keep it fucking civil if you want to live. Easy--"

Thorin nearly topples down the stairs, and suddenly there are five other tall nightmare figures with pointed ears, holding him upright but none too gently. He doesn't have to walk now; he's pretty much being dragged down the dark claustrophobic hallway, and he relaxes into it, because he's frankly too weak to do much but breathe and groan.

"Be nice, short stuff," says Tauriel. "He's got plenty of thralls and he's probably not thirsty, but he's easily offended and you're on his turf. So, you know, welcome to the halls of the  _elves_." And with that, she turns the doorknob, and they drag him into the deeper dark.


	7. Obelisk, Metronome - Space Opera AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder-- Chapter 5 has been updated with lots of new material, so make sure you read the rest of that one as well!

There are two ways to wait.

One is a method of cutting and separating, seconds and minutes divided one from another, a rhythm of moment to moment that echoes itself on a thousand scales. Day and night follow one another, and even the great ships in their extralunar yard, resting above the tyranny of night and day, are subject to the whirling periodicity of orbit. Against the relentless hammer of this rhythm, Time itself has crumbled, has yielded its secrets and betrayed its lover Space, and by some unbearable cosmic pulse the creatures of Earth blink in and out of existence, minds honed to wire by strange and deadly drugs, bodies vibrating like quartz in the contracted shadow of distance, from surface to surface of a hundred thousand worlds.

This is the human way to wait.

And yet, in the reclaimed deserts of northern Africa, on the human capitol planet Earth, there are monuments so old that history scarcely remembers them, plinths and pillars of wind-worn stone with the hieroglyphic names of kings still legible on their silent faces. They are ancient beyond ancient, and have endured through generations of war and disaster and wickedness. They have not changed; time has merely washed over and about them, leaving them only a little weathered and slightly askew.

No ticking measurement afflicts them. They are suspended. They wait as no human is able.

If humans find ruins on some of their new planets, or meet subsapient populations with howling mythologies of taller, paler men, they care very little; they have had wars, placed outposts, subjugated natives, and they now trade among themselves the riches of nations who once had writing of their own.

Though let it not be said that they give nothing back. When the dwarves met them, they were underground creatures, hammering rocks while the sons of Earth piloted starships of glass. Humans share, even if their hands are clumsy. They are uplifters.

Thorin, a dwarf of no auspicious parentage, remembers little before the engineering room on his great vessel, the Wreck of the Beleriand. When he dwells upon it, he can recall hazy burning forms, a great beast like a mountain falling from the sky, a few faces-- and then he grows weak, nauseated, exhausted.

Better to work his shoulders and his wrists upon the great machines of the Beleriand's gut. Better to embrace his uplifted status, to take joy in the higher things his mind can now explore, to craft and write and reason and to remember the events of the years since his implant was placed, than to try to remember what life was like before words and organized thought. He is the luckiest of the few remaining survivors of Erebor, to have been thus touched by brilliance and might.

And he is very good at engineering, at crafting and drafting and working machines. No doubt he was given special gifts by his human masters. No doubt; he feels blessed, and lucky.

Upon the hazy ribbon of red-to-blue that pulses in their path, the ship nears its destination, and Thorin competes in events from timed mech assembly to old-fashioned fistfighting, hungry for the grand prize: a chance to touch foot upon the dirt of the new planet, to be part of the away team. He is very strong, more so than he was the year before; and he is deft, devoted, hungry, a hundred factors which keep him on his feet while his mouth fills with blood and his opponent smiles, which keep him awake for days on end to scrawl out huge drafts and blueprints.

Thorin wins, edging out close competition; and when the Beleriand touches ground, he is the only member of the ground party to be nonhuman. He asks questions with his eyes, examining in spaces that no human would think to squeeze their tall shoulders and breathe their fragile breaths. 

This is why he is alone when he struggles through a rockslide in the twisted wreckage of a long-defiled forest, and why he approaches the smoking chill of the unrecognizable smooth stone plinth with none of his masters the wiser; this is why his hands press flat against the glass-slick white-marble wall before him, activating some internal alarm, and why the panels contract and depress with aching ancient hisses and reveal to him the cold stasis-still figure of something older than humans, something sleeping upon its dais and wise in its slumber, something tall and beautiful with long silver hair and alabaster skin that has been, for untold millennia, simply waiting.

Waiting as no human waits. Waiting among tumbled stones, in a sheer white block of material that chimes high when he taps it, naked but for a sheer silver drape, absolutely and beautifully untouched.

And Thorin is alone, under the black fissures of branches against a storm-white sky, when the tall lovely form stirs, and opens its eyes, and takes a deep breath of the sweet delicious atmosphere-- when he first hears that dark mellifluous voice, paradoxical from the white swan throat of the angel before him, and he first understands what it is saying.

Thranduil, he names himself, a king of the elves who were before humans, and whom the humans have forgotten, the first of many secrets that Thorin's masters have not told him. And he has, he says, been waiting for a  _very_ long time.

 


End file.
